


Legacies

by EffieAgo



Series: Clan Djarin [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: A Clan of Two, Accidental Adult Child Acquisition, Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Oh guess that's not a tag, Parent-Child Relationship, or maybe more?, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22015036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EffieAgo/pseuds/EffieAgo
Summary: A more liberal Mandalorian in his later years encounters a young religious hardliner with an infant and has a drink with him. Or, well, doesn't have a drink with him. Because, yeah.And things progress from there.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Original Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Original Character(s)
Series: Clan Djarin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602976
Comments: 154
Kudos: 597





	1. Gal'gala

The old warrior glared down at the half-empty glass sitting next to his helmet. Stopping at this dingy space station cantina had been a mistake, but of course he’d known it would be when he came in. It would have been so much simpler to have just grabbed a bottle and headed back to his ship. He wasn’t afraid to admit he was lonely but being in here by himself surrounded by tables full of laughing comrades-in-arms, couples and friends certainly wasn’t helping. He was about to give up and go on his way without finishing his drink when the main door slid open and a figure walked in. He could see the outline of the helmet before the person fully stepped into the light, and he _knew_. 

If that didn’t qualify as some sort of message from the universe, he wasn’t sure what would.

The other Mandalorian wore an impressive set of armor, was likely young enough to still be in peak fighting form, had a pulse rifle strapped to his back and was carrying a small bundle. Unlike the old man, he wore a signet proudly displayed on a pauldron. The newcomer walked swiftly toward the bar without so much as a glance in the direction of his observer’s table. That wouldn’t do.

“Hey,” he called out. “Yeah, you with the _beskar'gam._ ” It worked; the man stopped and turned toward him. “It’s nice to see another one of our people. It’s been a while.”

The helmeted Mandalorian held his bundle closer to his chest but didn’t say anything. 

He motioned toward the chair opposite his. “Sit down for a bit. Have a drink on me.” The invitation caused the other to stiffen and the old man would have been confused if he hadn’t noticed that his would-be companion’s gaze had settled on his own scratched and dented helmet resting on the equally scarred tabletop. Ah. That explained things. “You’re one of those, then.” The man began to turn away wordlessly. 

“No, wait, you don’t have to drink!" _Or take off your helmet, Maker forbid._ "Just sit and talk.” 

There was a pause and clear hesitation, but finally the other man nodded. “Okay,” came the reply as he unfastened his rifle and sat it on the table and then carefully laid his bundle on an empty chair before sitting down himself. There was another awkward silence, but to the old Mandalorian’s surprise, it was his guest who broke it. “Do you live here on this station?” 

“No way, this place is a shithole.” He indicated the glowing blue liquid in his glass. “Even the booze is garbage. I’ll be glad to be on my way.”

Was that a laugh? “Yeah, me too.” There was another glance toward what the old warrior could only assume was the mysterious bundle, placed just out of sight. 

“You a mercenary?” Somehow, it was clear the man was frowning behind the helmet. “No, not a merc. A bounty hunter?” That could explain the man’s rather on-edge behavior. 

Another pause. “I used to be. Now I’m- I guess I’m figuring things out.” 

“Fair enough.” The old man took a sip of his drink and tried to think of a safe topic of conversation. “By the way, I don’t recognize your clan signet.” 

“You wouldn’t.” Suddenly, the modulated voice was colder, defensive. “You wouldn’t know my family name either.”

“Ah, well nothing wrong with that,” he clarified, hastily. This kid wasn’t making things easy for him. “I like it, anyway,” he said, motioning toward the expertly rendered symbol. “Whatever it is.”

“It’s a mudhorn.” 

The old warrior leaned forward to get a better view. “Yes, I see it. A mudhorn, huh? Nasty beasts.”

“Yes.”

“Is there a story behind it?” He knew there must be. Even the most minor clans taught their younglings the stories behind their sigils. 

There was more hesitation, then a sigh. “There is. I- I fought one. It almost killed me.” So, the kid was the founder of his clan. Interesting. “Though it was provoked.” 

“Oh yeah, why’d you go and provoke a mudhorn?” 

“It’s not- You wouldn’t be interested.”

“Nah, come on, try me.” That ended up being enough encouragement and the story spilled out. Awkwardly, haltingly, but still. The older man got the impression the young hunter was leaving out some details, but that was to be expected. When it concluded, he couldn’t help but laugh and then watch as the other man’s helmet tilted slightly. “An _egg_ for some _Jawas_ , really? That’s quite an origin for a signet.” The oddest one he’d ever heard, that’s for sure. 

“I told you it’s not a good story.” 

“On the contrary, I think it’s excellent. Fewer battles and betrayals than your average founding tale, but that’s kind of refreshing.”

The helmeted man didn’t reply, but he sat back in his chair and, for some reason, reached over and grabbed his bundle and settled it on his lap. 

“You know what, kid? I have a name you’d recognize.” He waited until the masked gaze rested on him, predictably curious. “Hells, you’d probably even be able to sing songs about my clan.” 

“I… don’t sing.”

The old Mandalorian chuckled. “Well, recite then. My point is, you’d know the name if I told you.” 

“Yeah, so?”

“That’s just it. So what? What good does all that do me now? They’re all dead, all of ‘em. Even the ones who should’ve outlived me. My brothers and my cousins didn’t survive the Siege and its aftermath. My daughters- fighters, the both of them- gone in the Purge.” He tapped his finger against his glass. “And I’m here alone trying to drink my way to a quicker death, unable to even go out like a warrior.” 

“That’s-”

It was the old man’s turn to sigh. “It is what it is, but you’re still young enough. There’s no reason your Clan can’t have a future, despite everything.” He wished he could look into the other’s eyes, but he made do with staring at the visor instead. “That’s more important than having a past, wouldn’t you say?” The younger man turned his head, breaking what the old warrior could only assume was eye contact and then they sat in silence for a while, though this time it was more companionable than tense. “You’re alone too, then?” He asked his young companion.

The other Mandalorian shook his head and then carefully lifted his bundle and sat it on the table. It was wrapped in a bulky blanket and though he still couldn’t see what it might be, he could see that it squirmed slightly. “It’s me and my… my son.” 

It was a baby? That explained why he was so on edge, and probably why he wasn’t working as a hunter anymore. “He’s obviously very young.” Likely still an infant, though it was hard to tell given the way it was wrapped up. “You won’t be able to begin training him for some time.”

“Actually-” The former hunter began and then stopped. “Yeah, I’m aware,” he said finally. There was a weariness in his voice that would be familiar to any parent. 

“Don’t worry, though. Those early years go fast!” He remembered fondly the moment he'd realized his daughter Asta could outshoot him. “You might even miss them eventually.” 

“I don’t even know if he’ll want to be trained. Or if he’ll choose to swear the Creed when he’s of age.” The voice, even modulated as it was, clearly contained uncertainty and fear. 

The old man nodded. “Of course, you can’t know that now. You just have to do the best you can.” He wanted to add that there wasn’t one single, rigidly defined way to be Mandalorian, but he managed to stop himself. There was no way that would go over well.

“I should get going. The baby’s already asleep.” 

It seemed strange to exchange names at this point, so the elder Mandalorian just nodded. “Be safe on your journey.”

The other man scooped up his rifle and then his child. Then he paused. “I do have a question. Have you heard anything about an order of sorcerers who once fought our people?”

“You mean the _Jetiise_?” He used the Mando’a word because he didn’t know if there was a separate Basic term or what it might be.

“Yes, uh, I think so.” 

“Of course. My aunt claimed to have battled one on Mandalore during the civil war and of course there are our stories of old, but then the Empire made it out that most of their mystical powers were exaggerated propaganda. Of course, we shouldn't have trusted the Imps farther than we could throw them. Look where that got us. So, who knows?” He was puzzled by this line of inquiry, but he didn’t think he’d get much of an explanation out of the kid. 

“Thank you," came the reply. Well, the man was polite, anyway. "Be safe on your journey.” 

“Wait, try not to worry too much. About your kid, I mean. I can tell you’re taking it seriously. He’s part of our future, after all. A piece of Mandalore.” 

The man clutched the bundled-up child closer to his chest. “Yes.” 

“This is the way,” the old warrior said, the words feeling strange in his mouth after so many years. 

He wasn't sure if he'd get a response, but there was only a brief hesitation before the helmet inclined toward him slightly. “This is the way.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Din's in his 30s or 40s and really out here making 70 year olds say ok boomer


	2. Mando'ade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm definitely still dealing with my feelings after the finale, and I think I have a few more of these in me. I do have a definite ending in mind. Thanks for reading :)

“I already told you,” the Mandalorian said, fixing his scowl, which was hopefully still intimidating even through his visor, on the Rodian mechanic. “I can give you 300 credits now and the rest at the end of the week.”

The mechanic shook his head. “Look Ordo, it’s not that I don’t trust you, but what kind of work can you honestly expect to get?”

“Ordo?” Another voice asked from behind them, and though it had been more than three standard weeks since their brief meeting, it could only be one person. 

“Oh great, another one of you lot.”

He turned around, suddenly grateful that he was wearing his helmet so that the younger man couldn’t see his expression of relief. He wasn’t even sure why he was relieved, but he certainly hadn’t expected to see the younger Mandalorian again. “I didn’t think you’d be back.”

“I come here sometimes for fuel,” the man said, and Ordo noticed that he didn’t have his child with him this time. “Didn’t think you’d still be around, though.”

Grix sighed. “Wasn’t planning on it, but as you may have overheard, I’m having some trouble procuring the necessary parts for my ship.” 

The man was quiet for a while then nodded in the direction of the hangar. “I’m heading to my ship. If you want to… walk there with me.”

They walked in silence until the younger man spoke. “Din Djarin.” 

“Grix Ordo.”

He realized the other Mandalorian was looking at him. No, at his armor, which was painted white and grey to match his helmet. “You don’t wear the Ordo sigil.”

“No, I don’t.” 

Djarin stopped at the entrance to the station’s main hangar so Ordo followed suit. “I met people with that name in- when I was a boy. I was raised in a fighting unit.”

 _Of course you were. What did we do to our children?_ “My cousins or their kids, probably. I’m not surprised,” he said. “The clan- my father and his sisters, that is- spilt during the civil war and never really reconciled.”

He could tell the bounty hunter was looking at him through his visor. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, now it’s just me. As far as I’m concerned, Clan Ordo is as good as dead.” Even the planet Ordo, which had once been his clan’s home in the Mandalore sector, was now devoid of any traces of them. He started walking again, despite not knowing where exactly they were headed, and Din Djarin shuffled to retake the lead. Finally, they stopped in front of a ship. “Ah, a gunship. Not bad. Pre-Imperial, huh? 

“Yeah.”

He whistled appreciatively. “Looks to be in pretty good shape, considering.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, you gonna open the hatch?” 

Djarin still hesitated. “The kid— he’s a foundling.”

The old Mandalorian laughed. “I figured.”

“What? How?”

“No offense, but you don’t really strike me as the partnered type.”

“Ah, that’s—” 

_Is he flustered? Kriff, he is._ He decided to take pity on the kid. “Just show me your _ik’aad._ And your weapons cabinet while you’re at it. Judging by your blaster and that rifle you had last time, I’m guessing you have quite the collection.” That was enough to get Djarin to give in, and soon enough Ordo was standing face to face with a child who was not at all what he was expecting. It stood on the floor of the ship and stared up at him with adorable, expressive eyes and huge pointy green ears.

“What is he?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.” 

“No, I can’t say I know the species, though maybe there’s something a little familiar about him.” He pulled off his helmet and tucked it under his arm. Djarin’s slight flinch because it was expected. Less so was the child’s reaction. His eyes widened and let out a small whimper as he waddled backward, clearly surprised. Strange, because though the child wasn’t an infant after all, he couldn’t be old enough to understand the cultural implications, surely? He crouched down and reached out a hand. “Ah, it’s all right, little one. I’m still me.” He turned and look up at the child’s father who was watching the scene, arms crossed. “He doesn’t do this every time you take your helmet off in front of him, does he?”

The younger man shifted uncomfortably and looked off to the side. 

Grix stood up fast, fast enough that it hurt his joints, but he couldn’t help it. “No way. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I haven’t taken it off for anyone- for anyone living- since I was a boy.”

“Right, but- How long have you had the kid?”

Djarin tilted his head. “Maybe five standard months now.”

“And you _are_ his parent?”

“By Creed, yes. Unless I can reunite him with his people… and ensure he’ll be safe with them. I haven’t given him a name. I’m afraid he might already have one and I don’t- don’t want to take that from him.” There was something in that tone of voice. _Part of him, most of him, would do anything to avoid parting with the child_. Grix could understand; the thought of giving up his daughters, even the one who’d disowned him and betrayed their people for the Empire, filled him with an intense swirl of dismay. Even now, even with them both gone. To claim someone as your child and then hand them off to be raised by others? Unthinkable.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but even you—” He paused and considered. His armor was in decent condition, but he probably wouldn’t survive a blaster bolt to the chest at this range. Not at his age. “Even those who believe as you do take their helmets off in the presence of fellow clan members, yes?” There, that was diplomatic.

Djarin sighed and bent down to pick up the baby who’d been reaching up to him, tiny arms outstretched. He really was cute, whatever his species. “That’s right.”

 _This isn’t about_ The Way _at all. He doesn’t want to become too attached only to find himself alone again._ It hurt to think about, but it was a sentiment Ordo couldn’t help but appreciate. “It’s something you should consider then. It would be good for him.” _And for you,_ he didn’t say out loud. 

“I— I’ll think about it.”

“Good. Now I should probably get back. My ship’s not going anywhere until I get those parts.”

“Wait.” Djarin moved so he was blocking the exit. “It didn’t seem like you were getting very far with that Rodian.” 

Grix Ordo put his helmet on and sighed. “No, but that’s my problem. I’ll figure something out.”

“I’m heading for a job in the Mid-Rim. It’s just security, but they’re paying 6000. I think they’d be happy to have another Mandalorian and might be willing to up the fee. Even if they don’t, I’ll give you 50%.”

The old warrior frowned behind his visor. “Half, huh?”

“Half.” The other man’s voice was firm.

Grix wasn’t an idiot. Even without ever having seen the younger Mandalorian fight, he knew there was no way he was worth as much pay as Din Djarin. A few years ago, he would have refused out of pride. Instead, he nodded. “All right, then. I’ll grab some things from my ship and come back.” He thought about the strange turn things had taken as he walked through the hangar. He knew this would a temporary arrangement, but still, he would make some money, and who knows? Maybe Djarin would be willing to bring him along on a few more jobs. Maybe Ordo could go out fighting after all. 

Grix woke up in the hold of a strange ship. He blinked around in confusion until the events of the previous day came back to him. He stared down at his bedroll and noted with surprise that his back hurt less than he’d been expecting. His pride was still intact enough for him to have refused Djarin’s offer of the only bed, though that description was overly generous anyway. The thing barely looked more comfortable than the floor. 

Djarin and the child weren’t around, though he could see a covered pram hovering near the wall and had no idea if it was empty or not. “I’m coming up,” he remembered to call as he began to climb the ladder up to the cockpit. “Ah, good morning. I guess we can say it's morning,” he said as Djarin turned to look at him. The baby was on his lap, cooing happily and holding what looked to be a knob of some sort. 

“Good morning.” 

“Uh, so, we getting close?”

The other man nodded. “Another few hours. You mind being in charge of things up here for a bit?”

“No, not at all.”

“Okay,” Djarin said, but Ordo realized the younger Mandalorian was no longer addressing him. He’d turned the child around on his lap, so they were facing each other. “This is the plan: Grix Ordo is going to pilot the ship, I’m going to get my weapons ready, and you’re going to take a nap.” The child cooed, though it sounded more like a whine this time. “He doesn’t sleep through the night,” he added, looking up at the old man. 

“Ah yes, I remember those years.”

“I’m just afraid it’ll end up being decades,” the other replied, sounding resigned, and Grix smiled at that obvious exaggeration while the child tugged pleadingly at his father’s vambrace. “No,” Djarin said. “This is not a negotiation. I am your parent and your clan leader and you have to listen to me.” He stood up, gently cradling the child as he did so. “Not to mention that you’re currently outnumbered.” 

“Oh no, I did not sign up to get involved in any internal disputes,” Ordo countered with a laugh. “It’s good that you talk to him,” he added as took Djarin’s place in the pilot’s chair. “But...”

Djarin had made it to the door, baby in hand, but turned to look at him. “What?” 

“Shouldn’t you be speaking Mando’a? Getting him used to it since he’s not verbal yet?” It had been bothering Ordo. They’d been speaking Basic since their first meeting and he’d initially taken it as an intentional slight, but now that Djarin had gone out of his way to help him, he wasn’t so sure. 

Instead of the brusque reply he’d been expecting, Djarin simply hung his head slightly. “I do speak Mando’a.”

Grix blinked at that. “Well, of course you—”

“It was all anyone spoke to me for a while, when I was young. After I was taken in.” Djarin was a foundling himself, no big surprise there. “So, I know it. I do. 

_What in the hells?_ “I wasn’t suggesting otherwise.”

“But it’s not my first language, and—” The other man seemed to shrink into himself, shoulders falling slightly. It was an absurdly childlike gesture that caused a pang in Ordo’s chest. “It’s been years since I’ve spent much time around other Mandalorians. I’m probably out of practice, so I don’t know if I should—”

Grix laughed, he couldn’t help it, and the sound echoed around the cockpit. “Hey, I’m sorry but—” He stopped when he realized the other man’s posture looked more dejected than angry. He stood swiftly and reached an arm out toward Djarin. When there was no move made to stop him, he let it rest on the other’s shoulder. “Look son, I’m not mocking you. It’s just—”

“What?”

“Let's just say that was not what I was expecting from someone who shut himself in a closet to eat dinner and says ‘this is the way’ more than anyone I’ve ever met besides my great-grandmother.”

“Oh.”

“You know what, it’s been years since I’ve been around other Mandalorians too. We can get back into practice together, all right?”

“Yeah, all right.”

The young man’s voice had regained some of its usual confidence, to Ordo’s relief. “Hey,” Djarin said, turning his attention to the child who was attempting to squirm out of his grip.

“Here, give me the kid,” Ordo said. “I’ll bring him down when he starts to get sleepy.”

Djarin nodded and handed the child over without hesitation. Ordo waited until he was gone and then settled back in the pilot’s chair with the baby on his lap. “That _buir_ of yours is a bit of a _di’kut_ , isn’t he? Oh well, maybe I was too at that age. He’s doing the best that he can, though, don’t ever doubt that. You can be proud to be part of your _aliit_.” The tiny creature looked up at him with those big, round eyes and it almost seemed like he was listening. Maybe he was. “How about we start with that, huh? Aliit. In Basic, it’s usually translated as ‘family’ or ‘clan,’ but neither word is quite right…”

He kept speaking until the child fell asleep in his arms and then carefully carried him down to his father.


	3. Dar'tome

The old Mandalorian groaned. “‘Just security,’ huh?”

“Sorry.” Djarin did sound genuinely apologetic, and the absurdity of that might have been enough to make Grix laugh in other circumstances. As it was, they were pinned down and the situation was rapidly deteriorating. Their first week on the job had gone smoothly, but he should’ve known that wouldn’t last.

“Drop your weapons, Mando scum,” said the Zabrak at the warehouse entrance. He had two guns pointed at Grix, while his two human colleagues kept their blasters on Din Djarin.

Djarin hesitated for a moment and then slowly lowered his blaster down to the floor. The older man sighed and followed suit.

“What do we do with them?” The shorter, bulker human asked.

The Zabrak shrugged. “Kill ‘em, I guess.”

“Wait.” That was the other human. “We should make ‘em take off their helmets first. That’s like a thing for Mandos, right?”

“Good idea.” The Zabrak motioned toward Ordo with one of his guns. “You first. Helmet off.”

“No!” Djarin’s modulated voice rang out. “Stop! He’s- he’s an elder of our tribe and we follow a creed. Just give him an honorable death.”

 _What the—?_ Grix whipped his head sideways toward the other Mandalorian. Then it clicked. Djarin wanted a distraction. “He’s right. I won’t do it.”

“Oh, you’ll do it,” the taller human said, stepping toward him. “You’ll do it, or I’ll do it myself and then I’ll remove his helmet too and make you watch as I kill him. Slowly.”

Grix stood frozen in place for a moment before letting malice seep into his voice. “Fine.” Then he reached up and pulled off his helmet, letting his eyes close as he did so. His aim wasn't what it used to be and neither was his eyesight, but his throwing arm? The helmet flew through the air and hit the wall with a clang that reverberated around them. _Yeah, good enough_.

It proved to be just enough of a distraction. Djarin activated his flamethrower to throw the Zabrak further off guard and then got him with a blaster bolt to the chest while Ordo grabbed his own gun from the floor and shot the bulky human. He turned around just in time to watch the third man fall. _Kriff, but the kid’s good with a vibroblade._

Then it was just the two of them. Djarin walked over and picked up the other’s helmet from where it had landed. “Seems okay,” he said.

“I should hope so. It’s beskar, after all,” Grix said with a laugh. “Maker knows it’s been through worse.”

The walk through the city’s commercial district after they’d collected their pay was almost leisurely. They’d picked up the baby from the shopkeeper Djarin had been paying to watch him, a kindly baker with two children of his own. “I’ve learned it’s better to find someone trustworthy than to leave him alone in the ship,” the younger Mandalorian had said, as if that were some sort of major discovery. Ordo managed to refrain from commenting.

The child seemed more than happy to be reunited with his father, and he giggled cheerfully as his pram bobbed along between them as they walked through the busy streets.

“That was quick thinking back there,” he said to the other Mandalorian.

“Thanks. That was a good throw.”

“So, I was wondering…” He let his words trail off.

Djarin glanced at him, curious. “Yeah?”

“Did you kill that last guy the way you did— up close and personal, I mean— in order to avenge my honor?” It may’ve been a quick enough death, but Grix knew it had been far from painless.

Djarin stopped abruptly along with the pram, which was electronically tethered to him through his vambrace. “What? Absolutely not.” Ordo stopped as well and shrugged as he turned to face his companion.

“I’m just saying, it kinda seemed that way.” He knew he shouldn’t tease the younger man, but it was so easy to get a rise out of him.

“That’s—” Djarin began and then stopped before trying again. Grix couldn’t help but smile at the man’s clearly frustrated body language. “I saw you take your helmet off an hour before that so you could _drink ale in a cantina_.”

“Uh huh, a fair point. A fictionalized, traditionalist version of my honor then.”

Djarin stared at him for a brief moment and then started walking, quick enough that the pram had to zoom forward to keep pace. “I’m going back to the ship.”

“Okay, okay,” Grix said, stifling a laugh as he caught up. “Forget I said anything.” It took another few minutes or so of walking, but eventually their usual comfortable silence returned.

They were nearly to the spaceport hangars when the child began to whine and stretch out his arms. “He hungry?”

“Probably,” Djarin said as he reached out and let the baby grab onto his hand. “Is that it, you little womp rat? Wanna stop and get something to eat?”

“What about there?” The older man pointed to a nearby doorway.

Djarin sighed. “That’s a bar.”

“It clearly says ‘bar and grill.’”

“All right, fine, but we can't stay long. We need to head out.”

The older man nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Of course.” Despite it being mid-day, there was a sizeable crowd inside. Most of the tables seemed to be taken up by groups of off-worlders heading to or from the port. As they walked through the room to where there were empty tables, Grix scanned the other customers out of habit. One table contained a group of mercenaries, judging by their gear. Three were middle-aged humans and two of them wore _beskar’gam_ and had their helmets sitting alongside them. He stopped and put a hand on Djarin’s arm. “On second thought, let’s go somewhere else.”

“What? No. You wanted to come here and now we’re here. That table over there is free.” He reluctantly followed the other two and then listened as Djarin ordered savory porridge for the child. He kept his helmet on and just shook his head when the proprietor asked him if he wanted anything. It hoped that would be enough to keep him from being noticed. Djarin, he could tell, was staring at him. “What’s gotten into you?”

Of course, it wasn’t enough. “I know that armor!” One of the Mandalorian mercs called out as he stood up. The other one, a woman with greying blonde hair, stayed at their table but glared at him all the same. “I heard you were found dead in a gutter somewhere, Ordo. Should’ve known that was too good to be true.”

“Nice to see you too, Detta.” The two men stood facing each other and while Djarin remained seating, Grix noticed that he’d activated the pram’s cover and had his hand on his blaster pistol.

“Yeah, funny meeting you in a place like this, huh? When the last time I saw you, you were standing behind Gar Saxon, watching him sign away our planet, our future.”

Grix didn’t need to see Djarin tense up to know that he had. The older man took a step back. It wasn’t like Detta was wrong. Besides, he was far too old for bar brawls. “You’ve made your point. Now leave me alone.”

There was a rough grip on his shoulder, pulling him forward. “Oh no, you’re not getting out of this that easily. _Coward._ ” Detta used the Mando’a word, not the comparatively mild Basic equivalent, and for a second it hung in the air around them, but Grix, who’d been more or less expecting it, found he didn’t have it in him to muster up a reaction.

Apparently, that was not the case for Djarin, who leapt up in one single fluid movement and had his blaster trained on Detta’s exposed face. “Back off now or I’ll drop you.” _The boy sure can move,_ Grix thought with strangely misplaced pride.

The mercenary blinked, as if just noticing the other Mandalorian. _He’s drunk,_ Grix realized. Detta's eyes landed on the the mudhorn sigil and he frowned. “You’re no Ordo.”

“No, I’m not,” Djarin agreed. “And you won’t be anything in a minute if you don’t—”

“That’s enough!” A voice called out in heavily accented Basic. The three Mandalorians turned to see the bar’s Twi’lek owner, an older woman holding a disruptor rifle. “This may be a spaceport tavern, but I’ll have none of this nonsense!” 

Detta scowled but he backed up and retreated to his table.

Djarin waited a beat and then returned his blaster to its holster.

“It was extremely very calm until you two showed up! Be gone,” said the Twi’lek, who had turned her attention to Djarin and Ordo.

Grix nodded, doing his best to avoid looking at the younger man. “All right, we’re going,” he said, hands raised in a placating gesture.

“Starting such trouble when you have with you a little baby! Mandalorians, _sheesh._ ”

To Ordo’s relief, Djarin didn’t speak as they walked back to the ship. They stopped briefly at a food stall to buy a cup of soup for the child, who proceeded to slurp at it happily, seemingly unaware of the tension that had built up like a wall between the two adults.

It was only once they got to the _Razor Crest_ that Djarin turned to him. “Gar Saxon of Clan Saxon, the Imperial Viceroy,” he recited flatly, as if he were a contestant on one of those awful HoloNet quiz shows.

“Yes,” Grix admitted, taking his helmet off so the other man could look into his eyes. “I knew him, and I’ll admit I supported, for lack of a better word, the Empire's interference on Mandalore in the beginning. I guess I thought it was the best available choice.”

“It wasn’t.” Djarin’s voice was as cold as steel.

“No, it wasn’t. I realized that a few years later. The Empire was rotten to its core, and I was sure it would take us all down with it. So, I left, and it turns out I was correct. Never have I been sorrier to be proven right.”

Djarin cocked his head slightly. A gesture that Grix now understood to mean he was confused. “You left? A few years into Imperial rule?”

“That’s right.”

“But that’s more than many of our people can say. If you left early on to fight the Imps, I don’t understand-”

Grix sighed. He might as well tell the kid everything. “I didn’t leave to fight the Imps. I left the sector and stayed away. Went to the edge of Wild Space and found work there. By the time I returned, the war was winding down.” He decided to continue before Djarin could ask any more questions. “You see, my older daughter had already graduated from the Academy, already had her first posting. She truly believed in the Empire. I couldn’t bear to stay and-” His voice broke.

“You told me your children died in the Purge.”

He took a moment and then nodded. “They did. Isali was leading a unit fighting to defend the capital. Asta, well, I was told later that her TIE crashed in the desert. Dead on impact, it seems.” Grix leaned over and peered into the pram. The child had fallen asleep after finishing his soup and his ears rose and fell the tiniest amount along with his breaths. Becoming a parent changed a person. “So, maybe I am without honor. I just don’t think it has anything to do with when I take my helmet off.” He waited for Djarin to respond and when he didn’t, the old man straightened up. “Well, are you going to let me back on your ship or am I on my own?” At least he had the money from their job, though the thought of spending some of it on passage back to the space station wasn’t appealing.

Djarin was quiet for a moment and then he pressed the controls that opened the ship’s hatch. “Let’s get going.”

Grix spent most of the trip back in the hold. Djarin had taken the baby up to the cockpit and the older Mandalorian told himself he just wanted to give them privacy. He could admit it was starting to get a little boring, however. There wasn’t even a droid to play cards with. Odd that Din Djarin seemed to be doing all right financially but didn’t own a single droid.

“Ordo?” The other man asked as he climbed down the ladder, holding the sleeping baby in one arm. “Oh, you are awake.”

Grix's brow creased at that. “Course I’m awake. I’m old, not an invalid.”

“Uh, here,” Djarin said as he handed him two ration bars. “Thought you might be hungry.”

“Thanks.”

The younger man turned and stood awkwardly in place for a moment before turning back to face his guest. “Ordo, I—”

“Yeah, what is it?”

Djarin looked down at his child. “I’ve made some decisions I regret. Some bad decisions that got people hurt and killed. People I should have been able to protect.” The words came out rushed and Grix wondered if it was the first time he’d said them aloud.

“Oh kid, I doubt there are many of us left who could say otherwise.”

“I just wanted you to know. To know that— that I understand.”

What could he say to that? “Thank you.”

When they got to the station, Djarin came with him to negotiate with the mechanic and then Grix walked to their ship to see them off. He thought the child whimpered mournfully as he said goodbye, but he might have imagined that. Before leaving, Djarin pressed a commlink into his hand and he took it without comment. Then he stood and watched the ship disappear into space.  
  



	4. Aay'han

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not done with these guys, but their further adventures will do better as oneshots, so it's a series now. Thanks for reading!

“I was just about to win at arm wrestling too!” Cara Dune said with a mock glare directed at Djarin. “And that’s when Mando’s kid did it. Just like I was saying- pressure on my neck like someone’s hands were wrapping around and squeezing. He coulda killed me.”

On the other side of the round saloon table, Djarin was resting his helmeted head in one hand. “First of all, you were not about to win-”

“Easy for you to say now!” The former shock trooper’s words were only slightly slurred. “So, what I’m saying, Ordo, is watch yourself. Cute kid, but he can be a downright menace.”

Grix looked to where the absurdly innocent-looking ‘menace’ was sleeping in the open pram and then directed his attention back to the other Mandalorian. “So, when where you going to tell about the little one choking Cara?”

“I’m- I think I’m still wrapping my head around it.”

The old man laughed and took another drink of local beer. Nevarro was all right for some things. “Fair enough. It was enough of a shock the first time I saw him lift something up into the air. Though it did explain why you asked me questions about sorcerers and and mystical powers when we first met.” He’d since learned that that’s who Djarin was seeking out in order to help the child. He had some opinions on the wisdom of that strategy, but it wasn’t his place to comment, and he knew he certainly shouldn't raise the issue when he was bordering on drunk. 

“You need a refill?” Dune said, indicating the pitcher in front of her. She was grinning at him. He’d liked the former soldier as soon as Djarin had introduced them a few months back.

“Yeah, think I do. Hey kid, you’re missing out. This stuff’s pretty good.” 

Djarin made a sound that Grix thought probably accompanied an eye-roll. “Neither of you have a healthy relationship with alcohol. Someone has to be responsible.” 

“Oh sure, Mando,” the shock trooper said with a scoff. “Anyway, Ordo, I’ve been meaning to ask…” Dune’s words trailed off. 

“Ask away.”

“So, this foundling thing. Do all Mandalorians do that? Not just-” She waved her hand toward Din. 

Grix laughed. “Yes, all Mandalorians believe in taking in children in need, and it’s always been common for warriors to adopt children they encountered during battle, especially if the child impressed them with their fighting spirit.”

“Huh.” Dune looked over at Djarin who nodded.

“My younger daughter, Isali, for example.” 

Djarin leaned forward. “Yeah? You never mentioned that before.”

“Originally she was from a family of Mandalorian pacifists- the New Mandalorians, they called themselves.” He saw Djarin stiffen in the corner of his eye. There was a reason Grix hadn’t brought that part of his past up. He had some suspicions, after all, and some things were better left uninterrogated, but the alcohol in his veins was making him less cautious. Besides, he wanted to keep working with Din. Secrets would make things worse in the end. 

“Oh, I think I have heard of them,” the former Rebel was saying. 

“Right, well, anyway. Her family lived in a settlement on a small world in the Mandalore sector, but the planet came under attack. My late riduur, Nesrine, was there afterward with a small unit of fighters and when she came into one of the ruined houses, she got hit right in the helmet with a metal cannister. That was Isali, all right. Despite her early upbringing, she never did stop fighting. After she got the girl to safety, my wife commed and told me I was going to be a father again.” 

“Wow, that’s-” Dune managed, with a side-eye glance toward the younger of the two Mandalorians. “It explains a lot, actually.” 

“Hey, you know the circumstances of me ending up with the kid. I couldn’t just-”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” She turned her head toward Grix, grinning again, but before either of the men found a way to break through the awkwardness, she’d started talking again. “So, the attack on that planet, that would have been before the Empire, right? Who was it? Separatists?”

 _Shit_ , Grix thought. They’d almost avoided it. “No,” he began. “It was-”

“Kyr'tsad,” Din finished for him.

Well, there was no going back. “That’s right. The name translates to Death Watch in Basic,” he added for Dune's benefit. 

Cara Dune blinked. “Charming. They were terrorists?” 

“Yes,” Grix said at the same time as Din's “No.”

“They went after our own people, Djarin. Look, you know I’m no pacifist, but they were killing Mando'ade.” 

Din fist hit the table, just forcefully enough to draw the attention of some of the other customers. The child too, opened his eyes and looked around, confused. “They- they weren’t- Those people cast away the parts of our culture that makes us who we are. They exiled their own people. They were in the wrong.”

“I agree, kid, but that doesn’t excuse extremism and violence toward innocents.”

“They betrayed us. They _weren’t_ Mandalorian. They were-”

Finally, anger boiled over inside Ordo. “Go ahead, say it.” He wasn’t really angry at Din. He knew that. It was the residual anger from all those years of watching horrible things happen to his people combined with the present-day anguish of having something he wanted so close but being afraid to reach out and grasp it. Instead of confronting that, however, he focused on the word that they were very carefully not saying. “You can apply it to me, too. I’m sure you’ve thought it.” 

Djarin stood up abruptly. When he spoke, his voice was calmer, quiet even. “I haven’t- thought that about you.” He started to turn and then stopped. “Kyr’tsad saved me. It’s because of them I’m alive. It’s because of them I’m a Mandalorian.” Then he turned and walked out of the bar, the baby’s pram following close behind.

“Damn it,” Grix said, once they were alone. “I screwed up.”

Dune was staring at him. “Yeah, you did. You better go fix it.”

She was right, of course, though Grix wasn’t sure it could be fixed. He got out of the bar as quickly as he could, though. Din had said they would leave early the next morning for a job, but maybe his plans had changed, and he’d already left? Grix was worrying about that and trying to think about what he’d say if he did catch up with the younger man, when he caught sight of the _Razor Crest_ just where it had landed earlier, right outside of town. 

What was surprising was that the hatch was open, and at the top of the ramp sat Din, the baby next to him and apparently asleep once again.

“You didn’t leave.” 

“Nope.”

Grix sighed and climbed the ramp. Din scooted over to one side, making room between him and the pram. “You know I have my ship here. You could’ve left.”

“That ship’s barely in one piece. You’d be better off selling it for parts.”

The old man raised an eyebrow before he remembered that he was wearing his helmet. Well, the kid wasn’t wrong. “Yeah, but then what would I do? Move in with you?” He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. It was way too soon to make a joke like that, and sure enough, Djarin didn’t laugh. “Er, well, anyway. I was a _shabuir_ and out of line, and I’m sorry.” 

“It’s all right.”

“It really isn’t,” Grix said with a sigh. “There are so few of us left now. We have to stop fighting.” Din turned his head toward him slightly. “Each other, I mean. We have to keep fighting our enemies and stop fighting each other. And by ‘we,’ I mean Mandalorians as a whole.”

Now the younger man did laugh. “That’s an inspiring speech. It’s shocking you didn’t end up as Mand’alor.”

“Hey _mir’sheb_ , I’d like to see you do better.” He thought the kid would actually make a pretty good leader for what was left of their people, but he knew better than to say that out loud. Instead, he laughed too and then they were laughing together, which was enough to wake up the child who cooed and giggled along with them. “I know I get more out of this than you do. You could easily find a partner for jobs who's younger and able to help more when it comes to fighting. That said, I don’t want to stop working together and not just because I need the money.” There was silence for a long moment, and he began to wonder if Din would reply at all. 

“Neither do I.” 

“Ah. Well, good.” Grix wasn’t sure what else to say, so he leaned over and checked on the child instead. 

“I think you should sleep here tonight so we can leave early tomorrow. The guy who contacted me is expecting us.”

“You know I’m not that drunk, right?” He asked, but secretly he was relieved. 

Din sighed. “Just come in.”

So he did.

Djarin had said it would be a simple job, and for once it was. The object demanded by the client was easy enough to obtain, and if the kid didn’t have any qualms about stealing from one minor gang for another, then neither did he. They handed over the requested data chip, they got paid and they went on their way. Of course, nothing could be that easy, could it?

It happened quickly. The ambush and the fight itself. The five henchmen who attacked them had numbers and the element of surprise, but those were the only advantages they had. The whole lot was sloppy and unprepared, and Din was able to pick them off while Grix gave him cover and took shots when he could. It wasn’t until the younger Mandalorian was dealing with the last of the attackers that Grix noticed the activated grenade near one of the fallen fighters. 

It wasn’t a thermal detonator, he decided in the split second he had to consider, but it would still cause damage, so there was only one thing to do. What other choice was there? He could die in battle. He could die trying to save Din Djarin, a man who deserved to be saved. A man who had a child, a clan and a future. During the last six months the old man had been the most content he’d been in decades. 

He dived for the grenade.

There was brightness and pain and then nothing but black.

And then there was sound and light again and through his blurry vision, a familiar unpainted helmet. “Why would you do that? What were you thinking?” Din asked in a strained voice. If it really was him and not some hallucination.

“I…” He tried to form the words, but his throat hurt. Everything hurt.

“No, don’t try to speak. I need to get you out of here.”

No, that wouldn’t do. “Don’t… you di’kut… when I’m… gone… just leave.”

“I can’t. I won’t.” Then hands were supporting his head and Din was leaning closer until their helmeted foreheads touched lightly. “Hold on, okay? You have to hold on.”

“This is…it for me. Let… me go. But… first…” Every word was a struggle, but he had to force his voice to work. He had to. At least he found that the words of his native tongue were easier to form than Basic. _“Ni kyr'tayl… gai sa'ad_ \- Din Djarin.”

“No, stop!” Din’s voice was angry. _I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,_ Grix thought through the haziness he was fighting, a battle he was rapidly losing. Though surely it couldn’t matter too much now if the other Mandalorian did consider him to be _dar'manda_ , despite his earlier protestations. He was dying, after all, and it would be a good death. An honorable death. 

“I know… your… name as-” _My child._

“NO.”

And then, once again, darkness.

Grix Ordo opened his eyes and then shut them against the unwelcome flood of light. His head throbbed with pain and his throat was dry, but otherwise he felt okay. _Huh. I really thought that was going to be the end._

“Oh, you’re awake. How do you feel?” A soft voice asked. He opened his eyes again, slower this time. A middle-aged woman in a blue doctor’s uniform was looking down at him. 

He blinked a few times until the room came into better focus. They were alone in the room except for a couple of medical droids. He was under a blanket and wearing a thin hospital robe. His armor was carefully stacked on a chair in the corner and his helmet was sitting on a table nearby. That was something at least. And yet, he was alone. If Djarin had dropped him at a med center and left, well, there would be no misconstruing that.

_“You are no longer my father,” is all Asta says in the holo message, her skin unnaturally pale and stark against the grey Imperial uniform. Everyone knows what it means. They’re words that cut. He knows they’ll never stop cutting. None of the other Mandalorians on the base make eye contact him for days, and he can’t blame them. How did everything go so wrong?_

And yet, even that would be better than the possibility that Grix had been found and brought in by a stranger because he’s sure Din wouldn’t leave him alone if he were alive and injured, so that would mean... “I’m all right, I think. Head hurts.”

She nodded. “That’s to be expected. We took you out of the bacta tank a couple of hours ago, but you’ve still a way to go. I’ll give you another dose of pain meds, if you’ll consent.”

“Yeah, sure.” He watched her prepare the medication while he tried to gather the courage to ask that had been plaguing him since he’d opened his eyes. “Hey Doc, I was wondering if…” He struggled to finish the sentence. She turned back to him.

“You’re asking about the young man and the small alien child?” As he nodded, she handed him the meds and a glass of water and sighed. “They’re both fine. They’re the ones who brought you in.”

Grix felt relief flood through his body. “Ah, that’s good then. So, did they-”

“Unfortunately, I had to ask that they wait outside.” The doctor turned her attention toward the closest computer console but kept speaking. “I’m sorry but pulling a knife on one of my droid assistants is obviously unacceptable. It only wanted to ask if his child needed a checkup.”

He laughed even though it made his headache worse. “That does sound like Din.” Cara had filled him in about what had happened with the reprogrammed IG unit, and the younger man did seem to be loosening up a bit with regards to droids, but he clearly still had limits. 

“I’m not sure why you find it so amusing,” she said as she turned back toward him with an annoyed expression. “It’s at least partially your fault.”

“My fault?” Grix couldn't help but be confused by that. Surely the blame lay with the CIS. Din was far from the only member of his generation with a deep-seated distrust of droids. 

She frowned. “Well, you raised him, didn’t you? I’m not fluent in Mando’a, but I do know that word.” He opened his mouth without knowing exactly what he wanted to say, but the doctor was already walking toward the door. “I’ll go get your family, but your son will need to behave himself or he's out.” 

Grix closed his eyes. It felt good to block out the light. He must still be delirious. That had to be it. That, or the medicine. He was imagining things. _Be rational, Ordo. Focus and be rational._ But he couldn’t think straight, so he let himself let himself drift off for what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes. 

It was Din’s voice that drew him out of it. “You’re sure he’ll be all right? He’ll recover completely?”

“Yes, just as I told you. He’ll need to be careful due to his age and his many past injuries, but you can expect a full recovery.”

He forced his eyes open, ignoring the pain. “Hear that, kid? You won’t be rid of me so easily.” 

“You’re the one who threw yourself on that grenade.” 

“He did _what_?” The doctor asked.

Grix ignored her, instead focusing on Djarin’s tone of voice. Was he reading too much into it? When was the last time someone was happy that he was alive? “Yeah, yeah. I’ll try not to make a habit of it.” 

“Good,” the helmeted Mandalorian said as he lifted the baby up and sat him next to the old man. 

The doctor insisted that he stay another night in the clinic and Djarin had agreed without so much as consulting the patient himself. Grix found he couldn’t be annoyed, though, and it was clear his body needed the rest. When he woke the next morning, Din and child had already returned. 

“Yes, I’m satisfied.” The doctor sat down her medical scanner. “The test results are excellent, considering,” she said with narrowed eyes and a slight emphasis on the last word. Apparently she was still annoyed about Din's revelation concerning the nature of her patient's injuries.

“Great,” Grix said as he began the process of putting on his armor. 

The doctor watched with a furrowed brow. “Is it really necessary for you to wear all that right now?”

“It’s necessary.” he replied, sharper than he’d intended. _Kriff, I sound like Din._

“All right then,” she said, apparently unfazed. “Now, this is important. You’re not to engage in combat for at least three weeks. Preferably longer, but that’s the minimum. Honestly, you should really try to transition away from fighting of any kind. Also, no piloting until you’re finished with the course of medicine that I’m sending with you.” Grix frowned, but Djarin nodded.

“And, I cannot stress this enough, absolutely no jetpacks until you’re fully recovered. Or ever, ideally.”

“Okay, Doc. Got it.”

“Good.” She glanced down at the datapad in her hands. “I’ll just finish up your discharge documentation. Now, I’ll need your full name.”

He hesitated.

“Look, if you have a legal concern, I can assure you that we do not share our records with any authorities unless specifically requested and-”

“Djarin,” he said before he could change his mind. He ignored the other man’s startled reaction. “It’s Grix Djarin.” 

“Can you spell the surname for me?”

“Uh.” He didn’t think he’d ever seen it written down. 

“D-j-a-r-i-n,” Din spelled out, his voice sounding a little strange. 

The doctor entered it into the datapad and asked a few more questions before turning to the younger Mandalorian. “I assume you’re his next of kin. Can I have your name as well?”

There was only a slight hesitation. “Din Djarin. D-i-n.” 

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? You’re good to go.”

“Thanks,” Grix said, still carefully not looking at Din.

“And remember, no jetpacks!”

The other man made no comment as they left the clinic and wandered out into the streets, which Grix found to be both disappointing and a relief. It wasn't a conversation he knew how to start. The weather was pretty warm outside, so he pulled his helmet off and followed Din and the child. _Your grandson,_ he reminded himself. And he'd already decided there was no way they'd be handing the child over to anyone else to raise. That was a hill he was prepared to die on, but he didn't think Din would actually need much in the way of convincing. 

They stopped in a market to buy a few supplies and at that point the baby woke up and climbed out of the pram. The little one waddled around looking up with awe at the various wares on display. The old man stopped to watch him with a smile. 

Finally, Din turned to him. “So, I was thinking about where we should go next. Somewhere peaceful, since the doctor said you need to take it easy.”

Grix didn’t answer. It was still a lot to take in. Instead he crouched down to get closer to eye level with the child. 

“Ordo?” 

At that, he looked up. “I’m not an Ordo anymore.” 

“Uh, right. Grix.” 

“Nope. Try again.” Apparently it was Din’s turn to stay silent so Grix turned his attention back to the child who was still entranced by all the goods for sale. Eventually the baby ended up in front of a display of candied fruit on sticks. He stretched his arms up and cooed softly.

“No,” Din told his son. “Definitely not. You haven’t had any real food yet.”

Grix stood up carefully because his head still hurt a little and then grabbed the largest one he could find and tossed a credit chit to the vendor. “There you go, little one.”

“Buir!”

 _Ah ha._ “Wow, that’s almost bigger than you. Don’t eat it too fast.” He told the baby, who was happily chomping on the treat. 

“What are you doing? That’s pure sugar.” There was a frustrated sigh. “And you’re undermining my authority.” 

Grix snorted. “Oh, come on, I’m ‘undermining your authority?’ You sound like a Coruscanti politician,” he countered, managing to keep his face straight. “I’m part of your aliit now. I have a right to get involved.” 

“Yeah, but you’re supposed to take my side.”

The old man laughed. “I don’t think an entitled attitude like that ever helped a clan leader stay in power.” 

“Oh yeah, and what? You’re going to challenge me for my position?” Din stepped closer. His tone of voice was threatening, but Grix could easily recognize the thinly veiled amusement. That did not appear to be the case for the candy seller, who was starting to look nervous. _Time to go then, before local law enforcement gets called._

“Maybe, haven’t decided yet.” Grix bent over and scooped up the baby. “We should get lunch first, though. Hey kiddo, what d’ya think? Your dad’s cranky, huh? He probably needs to eat. Or maybe buy some new guns. That usually helps, right?” 

“This is-” Din began, and then shrugged and sighed. “Fine, but if he’s out of control later, you have to deal with him.”

“So, we grab some lunch and take it back to the ship?”

“Weapons and then lunch.”

Grix laughed. “Even better. I was thinking about getting a flamethrower like yours. Or maybe a jetpack.”

“Did you listen to _anything_ that doctor said?”

“Not really, why?”

His son made a strangled sound inside his helmet. “Buir…”

 _It’s not the end after all_ , Grix Djarin thought as he put the squirming baby back into his pram, and for the first time in a long time, he was okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aay'han - bittersweet moment of mourning and joy  
> aliit - family, clan  
> buir - father, mother  
> dar'manda - the state of not being Mandalorian  
> di'kut - idiot  
> Mando'ade - Mandalorians  
> Mand'alor -leader of the Mandalorian people  
> mir'sheb - smartass  
> Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad - adoption vow ("I know your name as my child")

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Yaim’vhetin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24728524) by [Fox (Foxen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxen/pseuds/Fox)
  * [Uncovered](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25993756) by [quintessence_of_dust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quintessence_of_dust/pseuds/quintessence_of_dust)




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